Oh, Ithaca, my snowy wonderland, I have long awaited a return to your frigid embrace, your wind roughly caressing my face and hair until I am red-faced and resemble Cousin It. With baited breath, I eagerly looked forward to seeing hipsters in numbers only rivaled by Williamsburg, to never-ending stairs, and to 3am fire drills. However, I was not looking forward to the salt.
As much as I appreciate your use of salt (and trust me, my questionable equilibrium thanks you), I do not appreciate my black boots turning white. I also do not appreciate my pants becoming salt-encrusted and crunchy.
But I love you, Ithaca, so I will forgive you. Maybe.
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